“And Miss Bingley?” Darcy said.
“In the drawing room,” Hurst replied, with unmistakable weariness. “Likely composing a list of all the ways the neighborhood has offended her.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. Miss Bingley was odious, but that did not mean she deserved to be stripped of her future. No woman did.
He looked at Hurst then, truly looked. “What concern of mine are your family squabbles? I have tried—Bingley will not listen. Why tell me this? You say we must force him, but I fear there is little I can do to sway him now.”
Hurst’s expression shifted into something almost embarrassed. “I tell youbecause,” he said, and the word sounded grudging, “if Charles ruins himself, we are tainted by connection. And if he takes Caroline’s money, he ruins her too. I do not particularly like my sister-in-law, but I do not wish her to become desperate. Desperate women become dangerous, and I have enough danger without it.”
Darcy nodded once. He did not waste words on thanks. Hurst would not want them, and Darcy would not cheapen the moment by making it sentimental.
Instead, he said, “I will speak with him again—one final time. You cannot ask more of me.”
Hurst’s eyes flicked with skepticism. “And if he refuses you?”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened. “At what point does assistance become officiousness?” he countered. “Bingley is his own man, even if he insists on acting like a child. Though I promise to do what I can.”As I always have.
Hurst nodded in agreement but said nothing more.
Darcy’s jaw tightened. A faint sound drifted toward them—footsteps, quick and light. A servant passing, perhaps. The household still moved, still functioned, but Darcy could feel the crack widening beneath the polished surface.
He turned back to Hurst. “Bingley intends to be in London before nightfall?”
Hurst’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes.”
Darcy nodded once. “Then I must act before he goes.”
Hurst pushed off the wall. “Good luck.”
Darcy’s gaze lingered on him. “If you hear more—anything—send word to me at once.”
Hurst hesitated, then inclined his head. “Very well.”
Darcy started down the corridor toward the study again, his steps measured, his expression calm, though inside his thoughts were anything but.
Bingley was not merely courting danger now. He was running toward it, blindfolded by pride, and willing—terrifyingly willing—to drag others with him.
Darcy’s hand tightened into a fist as he walked. He thought of Miss Bennet’s gentle composure, of the way she tried to see only good. He thought of the fevered county—and Bingley—intent on digging up earth with greedy hands, and of the fragile line between excitement and ruin.
And then, with a clarity that burned cold and bright, he accepted what he had resisted for days. This was no longer a matter of advice. It was a matter of rescue. He would do all in his power to save his friend from ruin. Whether or not Bingley would allow it was another matter entirely.
Chapter Twenty-One
Darcy had no chance to speak with his friend. Bingley’s departure was managed with a haste that bordered on evasion. He announced his intention to go to London to “see to business” only after he had nearly finished his breakfast, and before any response could be properly formed, he had risen, given a few hurried civilities, and quit the room. By the time Darcy might have contrived a private word, Bingley was already calling for his curricle.
Miss Bingley and her sister exchanged looks of confusion, while Hurst merely leveled a knowing expression in Darcy’s direction.
Darcy watched through the breakfast room windows as the carriage swept down the gravel drive, the wheels biting at the pale stone with brisk impatience. Though he had already broken his fast at Longbourn, he had joined the others there without delay, intending to speak with Bingley before his departure—but he had arrived only in time to witness the conclusion of it. His cousin had followed him in, a cheerful grin on his face thatwould surely have infuriated their host had there been leisure to notice it.
The late morning was bright enough to suggest cheer, but the air held that thin autumn edge that promised winter without quite committing to it. Bingley’s hasty retreat sat ill upon the scene. There had been no affectionate lingering, no genial parting at the door, no promises shouted back over the shoulder. He had eaten with clear haste, spoken of his intention more quickly still, and vanished, giving the impression that the very walls of Netherfield had become accusatory.
So, he has fled,Darcy thought, his mouth tightening as the carriage disappeared beyond the tree line.Or he has gone to do what must be done and will not permit anyone to witness the doing of it. Miss Bingley’s fork hovered above her plate long after her brother had gone, her hand momentarily forgetting its purpose. Mrs. Hurst’s gaze drifted to the doorway and back again, her expression composed but faintly puzzled. Hurst, however, looked entirely untroubled—indeed, almost pleased. He sipped his tea with deliberate leisure, his eyes flicking toward Darcy with that same knowing look he had worn when last they spoke, as if they now shared a private understanding neither lady could fathom.
Darcy forced himself to lift his cup and drink. The tea was perfectly brewed, but somehow it tasted of nothing at all.
“Well,” Richard said with cheerful decisiveness, as though Bingley’s absence were no more significant than a change in weather, “what say you to calling on the ladies of Longbourn this afternoon, Darcy?” Richard grinned, clearly pleased to have his rival out of the way for a few days.
“I am all for it.” Darcy set his cup down with care and turned to the others at the table. “Would any of you care to join us?” Despite having seen Elizabeth just that morning, he wished to be with her again as soon as may be.
